I feel the wars fading
in back of my life

I sense them falling off
in the snow flurries
like old flakes of skin;
artillery, trenches, tanks

I meet my sister in a dream;
we are reconciled;
she's 84,
and maybe the dream readies me
for her imminent death

The night before
I met my late American wife Judith
in another very strong dream:
I took a bus to where she was,
but she was angry at seeing me,
telling me not to look for her

Maybe these dreams instead announce my own demise,
slipping recklessly and hopelessly
across the line
in a strange tense,
a strange light

I'm jotting this
while hearing an interview with Martha Gessen
on Swedish Radio, forgive me,
so whoever dies,
lets call for the death of the dictator
while the wars are fading
at the back of our minds,
just like songbirds dispersing
in all directions,
and observe;
Putin is nothing but a really bad habit,
which we all can cut

My hands are full of deeds
and my wrist displays a gold watch
from the Police;
long and faithful service

I'm reappearing in myself
with the regularity and stubbornness
of a bureaucrat and a fool

The war is raining,
the war is snowing,
the war is shining from a clear sky

The mood swings from birth to death

Humanity's eight billion voices
all have something to say,
but I cut them up electronically,
stir them
and enjoy the ring of the mixed choir

Those who don't yet exist, by a long shot,
converse cheerfully and carelessly
in the preparations for the ensuing,
while the blood dwindles
in my own recollections,
the sudden bull bawling of the snow scooters
in the chill startling

I go pick up a book by Birgitta Trotzig,
read, lie, let lay